


Dearest Oblivion (aka Papa II Pays His Debts By Dicking Down Female Debt Collectors In Need)

by leaveyoursanityatthedoor



Category: GHOST - Fandom, Ghost (Sweden Band), Ghost (Swedish Band), Ghost B.C., the band ghost
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light BDSM, Mild S&M, POV Third Person, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-06-17 07:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15456153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveyoursanityatthedoor/pseuds/leaveyoursanityatthedoor
Summary: Five years ago, she thought she had missed her chance. Fate had other ideas. A young woman is sent to collect a debt from a man residing in a spooky old cathedral. Shenanigans ensue. I MAKE NO PROFIT FROM THIS.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> First and foremost, I want to extend the hand of gratitude to anyone and everyone reading this fic. I hope that my contribution won't disappoint. Secondly, I won't be adhering rigidly to the canon. This isn't AU, but suffice it to say if you've come here expecting 100% canon, you're in for a bit of a surprise. A pleasant one, I hope. When researching for this story, I encountered several inconsistencies in the official lore (I get the feeling Thigh Force might have been making a lot of it up as he went along, as opposed to planning it out). For this reason I decided it wouldn't be such a heinous crime to base my story around these things rather than adhere rigidly to them. Plus, it's fiction, and what is fiction if you're not allowed to have fun with it? Twinkle Fluff himself said you can make Ghost's characters whatever you want them to be, and who am I to argue with the man?  
> Also, massive thanks to my Sisters (and one Brother) in Smut for their input. You know who you are, and a piece of my heart is yours for the taking. 
> 
> I do not own Papa Emeritus II, the Nameless Ghouls, or any characters except my original ones. The band Ghost and its characters depicted therein are copyright of Tobias Forge, Martin Persner, and Peter Hällje.

**PROLOGUE**

 

Friday, finally.

Although only two weeks had elapsed since their third encounter, it felt like an eternity to her. Dramatic though it seemed to think of it in such a way, an eternity of torture. It had been frustrating enough to wait a goddamn week between their initial three meetings. It almost didn't seem possible that she had spent five years never expecting their paths to cross again. One month ago he had infected her, sowed the seed of sickness that had sent her libido and her need for him into overdrive, and from which there was no escape. For all the baseness and wrong that he was, for all the sickness that he had poisoned her with, he was also her cure. Smug bastard with his deft hands, skilled lips and tongue, his tempting cock and looks that could kill.

Oh, she was so amped for this, for tonight, for him. After steeling herself to keep him out of her mind for the entire day, her pulse now raced at the mere thought of him. First, though, she needed to get home, have a nap, something to eat, and freshen up. She didn't feel particularly sexy after a full five hours of getting yelled at in person, rounded off with three hours in a stuffy office and getting yelled at over the phone. In her fifteen months as a registered debt collector, Friday was always screamers day. Whether in her former home of Stockholm or her new one in Linköping, debtors hated having their weekends ruined. That fateful shift one month ago, she had become a screamer, too, but of a different sort entirely. Roles reversed, and she, hysterical, at the ministrations of this particular debtor—the only debtor who didn't scream.

Several bays away from her car, she felt her excitement build. Only seven hours to go, now. Seven hours and she would be at his door, probably fudging the password in her eagerness. Seemingly out of the aether came a deep, rumbling pur: the engine of a vehicle far bigger and more powerful than her own. She turned around to see a murdered out Cadillac Escalade ESV creeping along. She moved aside, giving the gleaming beast ample room to pass. Which colleague, or co-inhabitor of this lot, had just won the lottery, she wondered. This was a private underground lot, reserved for employees of companies based on this street; everyone required electronic ID to gain access, so unless someone's ID had been compromised, the SUV had to belong to an employee. She had been parking here since her transfer six months ago, and had become familiar enough with the other vehicles to know for sure she had never seen this one before.

Just as she was approaching the door of her diminutive vehicle, she heard the Escalade backing up at speed, its massive tyres screeching their friction against the concrete. Although startled, she didn't turn round, figuring the person or people behind those blacked out windows must have decided at the last moment to reverse towards one of the empty parking spaces behind them rather than venture on. Her hand was barely reaching to unzip her bag for her car keys when she heard what had to be the Escalade's door open, and she just about had time to register determined footsteps closing in on her before-

She knew it then: she should have looked. At least that way she would have seen her assailants. But she hadn't, and so she was effectively blind and at their mercy. One swooped in and snatched her bag before running away with equal expediency, whilst the other's strong arms encircled her in a bear hug. Winded by shock and panic, the scream she attempted only caught in her throat. She struggled to the best of her abilities as her attacker dragged her backwards, on course for the Escalade, but to no avail. This stranger was taller than her, strong, and agile, making seemingly light work of avoiding her thrashing legs. Hot terror flooded her system, the world racing and spinning around her as she realised her plight. Her heart pounded and her skin stung and her breath turned to chokes—these people were going to kill her, unless her own treacherous body didn't do so before they got the chance.

Who...? How...? Why...? This wasn't fair, wasn't right. She couldn't go like this. At 25 she had barely even lived, and now...?

It was only as she was being bundled into the back of the Escalade that recognition finally hit her—the distinctive fragrances of frankincense and cardamom; the vital punch of pheromones hitting hard on the most primal of levels—this was _him_ . Her body knew him. Her body would always recognize him. The vehicle's middle seating was missing, leaving an expanse of plush, carpeted floor, and in the seconds it took to manuver her to the remaining seats, her hitherto desperate terror turned to roaring, adrenalin-boosted desire. Still processing the tummult, her heart beat urgently, but her clothed skin rejoiced at his touch, and oh dear God she had no idea how it could even be possible but she was already wet. Had her kidnapper been another person, another hookup or boyfriend, she wouldn't have welcomed the shock; she would have fought if she could, and continued fighting, and then told him to find someone else to stick his cock in.

But this person was him, and that made all the difference.

Had there been any lingering doubt of her captor's identity before she got the chance to look, it was swiftly put to rest mere seconds later. Despite the front seat section being obscured by a darkly tinted screen, rendering the occupants barely visible to their backseat charges, she caught a flash of movement from the passenger side and the sound of a door opening, followed by a familiar mask-faced man swinging the SUV's door shut behind her. From the moment of her ambush to that hefty swoosh of metal trapping her with her lover-come-kidnapper, it couldn't have been more than thirty seconds. Everything happened so quickly, she surprised herself she was even managing to register anything. This was just so utterly crazy, she could scarcely give any of it credence. But since a month ago, that was what her love life had become.

The tall man relinquished his grip on his captive, letting her relax, allthough she instantly missed his touch.

"Drive", he commanded coolly to his accomplices—evidently the screen wasn't sound proof. He didn't buckle up, nor did he instruct his quarry to do so, but she could feel him simply watching, observing her, as she shifted in the leather seat to face him.

The vehicle took off at an ambling pace, her mind and heart racing within its confines. She didn't even know where to begin with the questions.

"How did you...?" she started without thinking as she took in his appearance—clad in full regalia, obviously fresh from some liturgical service. Yet, words quickly abandoned her the moment she met his eyes. How, just how was it possible for one person to have such an affect on her, such immense power? She should resent him for it, independent woman in the 21  st  century that she was, yet it only had her mind and lady parts in a total fluster. Not fair. Not fucking fair.

 _I am_ Labyrinth _'s Sarah Williams throwing a tantrum._

Extending a gloved hand to trace a gossamer path down the side of her face, he replied with a slight smirk, "Easy when you know people."

Of course. She had forgotten his association with her boss.

"Why now? You didn't text."

"Thought it might be a nice surprise for you. Although if you'd rather still wait until tonight-"

"No." She shook her head for emphasis, a little too desperately, she realised, at his slight chuckle. All of a sudden she no longer wanted to eat, sleep, or even freshen up. She wanted what was being offered to her here and now, and she didn't care how desperate she looked or that her underwear wasn't fresh out of the tumble dryer...or, in fact, that she had an audience.

"Where are we going?"

"Wherever you want. We can go back to HQ if you'd like some privacy; _otherwise_ ," he made a point of stressing the word, " we can drive around the city, or we can drive somewhere remote and park. Whatever sounds best to you."

Sasshole nature notwithstanding, the bastard was nothing if not chivalrous.

"I... just drive around... I guess."

"You guess?"

"I mean I... I don't mind them.. watching... hearing."

He gave a nod of affirmation. "We're driving, boys," he called to his accomplices, without breaking eye contact.

There was something jarring, something surreal, about the way he could talk to others while focussed completely on her. It felt like five years ago again, him on that stage looking down at her in the front row; he was singing to everyone, but in those moments his attention was solely on her. Congratulations, Ms Elin Lindström, you've just hit the jackpot. The paramedics are on hand if you faint.

"So," he continued, leather-bound palm gently cupping her jaw, thumb equally as gently teasing the edge of her lips, "on your knees."

 

 

 


	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:
> 
> 1\. In North America and the UK, there is a difference between bailiffs (which fall into several categories), sheriffs, and debt collectors. In Sweden, it appears all of these are just referred to as bailiffs, despite the distinctions (although if I'm incorrect, you're welcome to haul me up on it). The central authority that deals with debt recovery commonly outsources its cases to debt collection agencies. 
> 
> 2\. Zoinks! I noticed a pretty significant error in the prologue: I said our OC had been in Linköping for six weeks, although what I meant to say was six months. It has been corrected rectroactively. 
> 
> 3\. Thanks going out to my lovely sisters and brothers of sin for their assistance, and to you, my wonderful readers (and if you like what you see, don't forget to comment, and/or subscribe, and/or give kudos. As a writer it means a lot to me).

**CHAPTER 1**

 

One month earlier.

On an overcast Friday in Linköping, at 9:55 a.m., Elin Lindström sat in her car, in a virtually empty parking lot adjacent to a cathedral. Going over the writ once again, she read that a Mr. Béla Fekete, of Unit 2, the Lorem Ipsum, owed 173,005 kr to his landlady for unpaid rent. This imposing, gothic establishment, it turned out, was that very place.

 _Lorem Ipsum,_ she thought to herself again, _meaningless placeholder text_ . Whoever named this place must have had a keen sense of humor, or was severely lacking in inspiration or brain cells. But who gave a cathedral such a name? Linköping boasted two buildings of religious significance: a Roman Catholic cathedral looming large over the center of the town, and this one, situated in the town's outskirts, but of which there appeared to be a dearth of recorded information. It wasn't marked on any browser maps, and despite having a postal code it nevertheless managed to evade Elin's GPS. She felt grateful for having left the office half an hour earlier than she would have usually done, because otherwise she would have shown up a good twenty minutes later than her employer's letter to the debtor stated. Even though the debtor had ignored the attempt at correspondence, Elin in her professional capacity still had to be punctual. Thank God for bizarre intuition.

At least it had made for an amusing excursion.

"The Lorem Ipsum?" the geriatric man with a strong country accent had said, an air of shock in his words, after Elin had resorted to asking locals for directions. All but him had responded with nothing but questionable looks, or hurried apologies. Frustrated and running out of time, she had nearly resolved to turn back, when this crusty specimen had ambled up to her idling car, asking if she was lost.

"That be that old spooky church a couple clicks east," he had continued. "You don't wanna be going there, missy, 'specially not on your lonesome."

"It's for work," Elin had replied.

"Work or no, pretty young thing like yourself got no business with a place like that. Bunch 'a weirdos, so they say."

"You've seen them?"

"Not with me own two eyes, no missy, no. But I's heard things."

"As in, it's haunted?"

"Probably haunted. But the scariest things there ain't the ghosts, so they say."

Elin was intrigued, and, if she had to be honest, a little perturbed, but didn't have time to argue. The address' landlady bore a Swedish name, but Béla Fekete didn't sound like a native; this man looked to be in his 80's, thus of a time where anyone so much as a foreigner would have been treated with utmost suspicion. In all likelihood, the place was omitted from maps because of perhaps some arbitary antiquated rule that modern day society knew next to nothing of, and some /many/most of the people who inhabited it happened to be foreigners. It took only one rumor to tarnish a reputation, to turn something innoccuous into something sinister and malevolent. Plus, who knew how up-to-date this yokel's information was anyway? Maybe this ominous establishment—whatever the hell it was—served an entirely different purpose than the one it used to in his day?

So, she had pressed the old guy for directions, which he had reluctantly furnished her with, interspersed with further supplications to avoid the place. She could only hope his directions were honest, let alone accurate. His parting words to her were: "You really oughta rethink who you're working for, missy, if they send you to places like that."

Fortunately, he had been gracious enough to be truthful with her, direction-wise at least.

While exiting her car and slamming the door closed behind her, a crow swooped low overhead, cawing loudly. As if things couldn't get any more spooky, Elin thought. It surprised her this building wasn't shrouded in as much mist as its mystery, and that there wasn't a snarling hellhound prowling the grounds. She wondered why Mr. Fekete resided here, if reside he did—to the best of her knowledge, no-one lived in religious buildings beside perhaps those who broke in. Maybe he just rented a room to conduct business from? Had to be a very lucrative niche business if few outsiders could find the place without his express directions. Then again, maybe that's precisely what he did: directed them personally? Perhaps his post arrived by ninja courier, too, or undercover spy drone. Though she had largely dismissed the old local, all these questions certainly added a tinge of unease to the whole scenario.

 _Nonsense_ , she promptly told herself as she headed towards the entrance, the sound of her diminutively-heeled ballet pumps against the concrete swallowed in the pressurized atmosphere. The air felt heavy, the pungent zing of ozone pricking her nostrils, foreboding.

 _Oh come on,_ she scoffed. If there had been something amiss, her supervisor wouldn't have sent her here at all, much less on her own. Debt collectors usually worked in pairs in case debtors became testy; that she was here alone meant there was no threat. Still, if that old man was so afraid of the place...

 _He's afraid because most of them are probably foreigners, and that's all there is to it._ The place probably had a long-standing tradition of employing foreigners. Nothing to get worked up about.

Arriving at the arched front doors, she noticed an intercom system on the right hand wall. If she wanted to back out, now was the time.

After a moment's consideration, followed by several more moments of self recrimination for being spooked at essentially nothing, she pressed the 'talk' button and spoke into the microphone, "Elin Lindström to see Mr. Béla Fekete."

Seconds later the door opened, revealing a tall, anorexically thin man and a short, curvaceous woman, who she had to summon every iota of her strength not to gawp at. _You have got to be kidding me,_ she thought, taking in the masked gatekeepers. After all, it wasn't every day you happened to be greeted at spooky cathedral doors by people in Nameless Ghoul era IV outfits. A fan of the band Ghost since the relealse of their sophomore album, _Infestissumam_ , in 2012, Elin was familiar with their get-up. Campy and parodic though the band seemed, she'd heard the rumors about them being from an actual Satanic chuch in Link öping; but she'd written the rumors off as a good marketing schitck but essentially complete hokey, and hadn't investigated further, even after relocating to their fabled town of residence.

Still, she had always dreamed of Papa Emeritus II being a real person, as opposed to an actor in a mask or makeup. The apparently bare-faced version of him—some Italian don type figure with a stuck-on porn mustache—dapper though he was, did absolutely nothing for her, but she had always prayed that version was a ruse. The guy in the skull paint and full regalia, however, had had her loins all aflutter from the moment she lay eyes on him via online footage, becoming a staple of her wildest masturbatory fantasies ever since. And then there was the time when-

No, she had missed her chance, back then. It obviously wasn't to be. Besides, she would have only felt let down if he'd revealed himself to be an actor, or that Don Corleone guy. Ultimately, she should be grateful she never got to consummate what that night's flirtations had begun; and never would, if the era IV propaganda were to be believed...which she didn't. But it made no difference, ultimately.

The masked duo looked at her, and she looked at them. She had witnessed many odd, amusing and even unsettling things in this profession, but this took the cake. It could only be some sort of a joke, some hilarious take on casual Friday—Fancy Dress Friday—and these two were obviously Ghost fans. Nevermind that their bodies resembled those of the lead guitarist and one of the keyboardists from the current lineup. Yeah, and tall, thin men and diminutive, thick women didn't exist together anywhere but in a doom metal band. Right. For a moment too long, there she stood, only chivvied out of dumbstruck inertia when self consciousness set in with a jolt.

"Please, enter," said the woman, in distinctly foreign-accented Swedish. Well, that went some way to answering one question.

_Don't laugh. PLEASE, don't laugh. This is all perfectly normal. Oh for the love of all things sacred DO NOT FUCKING LAUGH._

One thing struck Elin as she stepped into a vestibule the size of an average living room: modernity. Where she expected to tread on grey flagstone, her heels clickedy clacked against black marble, polished to a high sheen. She could almost see her reflection in the walls of the same glossy material. Instead of sconces and dancing shadows, a row of tiny spotlights, recessed into the ceiling, cast a soft but steady glow, with a row of slightly dimmer spotlights along the foot of the left and right walls adding a sutble gradient effect. At the left side of the room stood what appeared to be a reception desk, also sculpted from black marble, where the male ghoul promptly took up residence after locking the doors behind the new visitor.

"Please, fill this in," he said—this one was clearly Swedish—handing her a form attached to a clipboard. She eyed him quizzically. "Standard procedure," he answered curtly.

One look at the header of the form and she had to stop and take a deep breath. Things were getting stranger by the minute, and nothing she had encountered thus far in this profession could have prepared her for it, for this: Church of the Bathorial Luciferian Order. CHURCH. OF. THE. BATHORIAL. LUCIFERIAN. ORDER. Now they really did have to be kidding her. Her every iota of professional cool was being tested, and she was finding herself increasingly lost for how to react. This did not bode well at all.

 _You can handle this,_ she tried to reassure herself. _They're just people in costumes pretending to be members of a band who may or may not really be Satanists. It's all in jest. This place is probably a joke shop factory or a theatre company, and when you meet whoever this Mr. Fekete is, you'll sit down and there'll be a whoopee cushion concealed in your chair._

 _But what if it_ is _for real?_

_It can't be._

_It can. Which also means that_ he _-_

 _Stop it right now._ This was a train of thought that urgently needed derailing. She was not a barely-out-of-her-teens fangirl anymore, when getting butterflies in her stomach over a band frontman was still acceptable, but a 25-year-old woman who should know better.

_Fuck you. And who is really an adult at 25 anyway?_

She cut her semi-existencial crisis off by making a snap decision to start asking questions outright. These ushers weren't volunteering any specific information, and it wasn't beyond her remit to inquire.

"Excuse me," she adressed the female ghoul, but halted abruptly when she masked woman's eyes met hers. Uncharacteristically, all of a sudden she felt horribly put on the spot, as if she herself were the debtor. Her resolve to question these people in a straightforward manner was wavering. This wasn't like her at all. Was there something in the air in here, wreaking havoc on her nuerons? Maybe the old yokel was right, and she should have stayed away? "Would you excuse me for a moment while I go outside and make a phone call?"

She'd be late for her debtor, but it couldn't be helped. She was here now, and if she was going to go ahead and serve this writ, she needed just a little more time to collect her thoughts, compose herself. Her supervisor would know more than she did. He'd be able to address her questions.

"Of course," replied the woman politely, immediately retrieiving a key from her backpocket. "Did you read the form?"

"Not all of it."

"Please, read the form first, and sign. Then you may make your call."

_What?_

"I'm sorry?"

"It's standard procedure. Once a visitor enters, they have to read and sign the form before they, or we, can proceed."

Elin blinked several times in rapid succession, trying to clear away a fraction of the unease. What the hell—pun intended, perhaps—was going on? This was starting to feel like a hostage situation... But she couldn't allow her mind to wander down that particular track. She had to maintain her calm. She had dealt with challenging situations before, and although this one was singularly absurd, if she had to be honest the vibe she was getting wasn't especially sinnister. That was, suppposing she wasn't just swallowing their bait, hook line and sinker?

 _Oh for fuck's sake,_ she scolded herself. _Grow up._

She reined in the sigh of frustration and looked at the form.

 


	3. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:
> 
> 1\. Some Christian terminology, for those who aren't aware: Nave: the area at the liturgical west of the building, where the congregation sit; Chancel: (broader definition) the area at the liturgical east of the building, housing the altar, amongst other things; Crossing: the area between the nave and the chancel, where the four sections of the building meet; Transept: in cruciform buildings, the two 'wings', one facing north and the other south, resembling the horizontal bar of the crucifix.
> 
> 2\. Suspension of disbelief: Sweden uses the metric system, but as I'm writing for a mainly North American audience, I'm using the imperial. 
> 
> 3\. Last but absolutely not least, my continued thanks to my sisters and brothers in smut for their readership. A special thanks to one particular fan of His Royal Thighness for her help.

**Chapter 2**

 

 _Welcome to the Twilight Zone_ , announced the Universe, silently _, where anything is possible and the only limits are your imagination._

Well, barring the possibility she had gone completely in sane, she definitely wasn't imagining what she was reading. This was an NDA, an actual Non Disclosure Agreement, prohibiting her, Ms. Elin Lindström, from speaking about people or events witnessed on the premises, except those pertaining strictly to her "own professional conduct in the capacity of bailiff, and that of the visitee, Mr. Béla Fekete". Named visitor; named profession; named visitee, she noted. For documents to be legally binding, specificity was essential, which added weight to this whole exercise being genuine. Exactly how _reasonable_ it was, given the rumors and now proven common knowledge about this place, seemed questionable—you couldn't protect what was already in the public domain—neither did it strike her as particularly legal to slap an NDA onto unsuspecting visitors. Then again, what the general populace saw could be only a modicum of who and what this entity actually was and did—their marketable, lucrative public face. Hell, they could be Russian spies, for all she knew.

One thing was certain, though: assuming this wasn't a joke, and even if the document wouldn't hold up in court, she wasn't going to get anywhere if she didn't comply with it presently unless it involved calling the police.

Well, they _were_ effectively holding her against her will, so...

But she wasn't going to do that, was she? Because if she did, it would totally ruin even the slightest chance she had of bumping into that one specific man. Supposing he wasn't an actor, of course, and happened to be there at all.

 _Bunch 'a weirdos, so they say,_ the yokel's words echoed in her mind. _Scariest things there ain't the ghosts._

Ghosts. How ironic.

She signed the form, then handed it to the male ghoul. He inspected it, before nodding at the female ghoul, who promptly informed her that she could now make her phone call.

"Knock when you're done," said the masked woman as Elin stepped back into the outside world, the last vestiges of apparent normality, once again. The storm was imminent now; she'd have to make quick, lest she end up drenched. _Soaked_ through. But if _he_ was real, if this place was as it seemed, and if _he_ was here, and she happened to meet him somehow... well, her panties wouldn't leave the encounter dry.

Paranoia on high alert, wondering whether there were covert listening devices eavesdropping on her every word, she immediately phoned her supervisor, Magnus. He picked up on the second ring, almost as if he had been ready and waiting for her call. Despite her deliberately vague line of questioning, and his equally vague answers, he seemed to understand what she was talking about, which immediately set her at ease. Magnus was a good guy, as far as she knew. During nights out with his underlings, he would regale them with tales of his decade as a roadie for various Scandinavian rock bands, during which he had encountered all manner of absurd situations. Ghost's name had never come up, but when questioned by Elin he had admitted a liking for them. Elin couldn't help her imagination running away with her now: had he been lying, covering his back, during those alcohol-fuelled bonding sessions? Did he know more about them than he let on? Because now she had a hunch that he might do.

Keeping it as nebulous as possible, Magnus signed off, assuring her not to worry. It hit her then, like a punch to the face: this was either some elaborate, long-term ruse to ensnare and likely murder poor, hapless her, or it was as it appeared: real.

 _Real_.

She closed her eyes, taking a long drag of the ozone-saturated air.

If _he_ was here, and their paths happened to cross, would he recognize her? Five years hadn't made that much difference in her appearance, except for a little weight gain and the beginnings of fine lines under her eyes; but she didn't exactly go to work looking like a rave fairy, with rhinestones decorating her brows, or her hair in grungey, psuedo-psychadelic buns, as she had done for that gig. She had made an effort to stand out that night for him, and, save donning a funky chicken costume, rave-chick-who-mistakenly-ended-up-at-a-metal-gig aesthetic was the next best option. The bemused and questionable looks she received from various others, which at that point in her life usually would have stoked her ire, did little to bother her at all; and then, when _he_ noticed her, and his gaze lingered for longer than that indicative of casual interest, she knew her plan had worked.

And she was right—scrupulously fair though he was to his fans for the most part, during those eighty minutes he paid a considerable amount of attention to her. Sultry glances over his shoulder; prolonged gazes as he walked her way; flashes of seering eye contact whilst prowling the stage, letting her know that wherever he went, he would not let her out of his sights; tantalizing brushes of leather-clad fingers against hers; full-on hand holding, coupled with a devlish smirk that was like a lightning bolt to her loins. Finally, there was a kiss blown directly at her. Not simply in her direction, but directly at her. Sure, she was far from the sole object of his affections, but just to be one of them felt like a dream. And one of them, with the potential to get closer still? That felt dowright miraculous. He had seduced her that evening—not because he needed to, but simply because he _could_ —and the shivers that had coursed through her body, not to mention the unfaltering yearning at her core, were like nothing she had ever felt before, dear Lord.

Despite all that, though, the man had seen thousands of female faces during his tenure as Ghost's frontman—too many to realistically remember more than a very select few. In the unlikely event that she was lucky enough to occupy a space in his memory, he would only remember her as she was back then, and to expect him to be able to identify her out of context so long afterwards would be asking too much. Perhaps, then, if he was here at all, the best she could hope for would be the permission of sufficient time to try and jog his memory.

She knocked at the door, swiftly being re-admitted by the female ghoul.

"Is everything OK?" the masked woman asked, although her tone bore no trace of emotion. It seemed closer to vaguely threatening than anything else, or at best an unnecessary question, particularly given the NDA and the possibility of spying devices outside.

"Everything's fine," Elin replied politely, refusing to be rattled, "thank you."

"OK, " the woman continued, "If you'll just hand your watch, bag, and shoes over to my colleague. Then please put your arms out to the side." She stood with her feet shoulder width apart, holding her arms parallel to the ground.

So she was insinuating she thought their visitor was an idiot? Elin let it go. Maybe the woman was having a rough day already. Maybe it was her time of the month. Maybe she and this Béla Fekete person were dating, and she was passive aggressively defending him in the only way she could?

Elin obeyed the instruction, removing her watch and shoes, then placing them alongside her bag on the reception desk, and submitting to the frisk. With secrecy being paramount here, it made sense the organisation would have other security measures in place. Besides, getting to feel the smooth, cool marble floor against her bare feet was a wonderful sensory experience. Fortunately, the woman's apparent passive aggresiveness didn't extend to hands on procedures.

During the frisk, Elin heard, but did not turn her head to see, the male ghoul emptying the contents of her bag and having a thorough rummage, followed by a very slight electrical hum. She wondered if he was planting any covert surveillence devices, or was at least attempting to put the fear into her that he was. In any case, she wasn't going to take any chances after she left. Judging by the vestibule alone, this organisation wasn't short on money, except perhaps for Mr. Fekete's; their legal team would be more robust and far scarier than one she could afford. Or, if they were undercover operatives planted by the Russians, she might as well start making a will, regardless.

"All clear," the man announced moments later.

His colleague acknowledged him with an "OK" as she inspected between their visitor's toes. Elin guessed you could never be too careful, but prayed an internal search wasn't next.

Luckily, the female ghoul promptly stood up, giving an "All clear here, too," which the desk-bound ghoul responded to with an "Mmm hmm." She almost expected the woman to dart a crafty hand between her legs at the last moment. Fortunately, these ghouls appeared to be professionals, and without delay the woman handed their visitor back her effects. Elin, likewise, wasted no time in slipping her shoes back on, and her bag over her shoulder.

"Follow me, please," the woman instructed, "Mr. Fekete is waiting."

To the end of the vestibule they went, and through a black, laquered door, that Elin would never have guessed existed due to how well it blended with its marble surroundings. Into the cathedral proper and what she supposed had to be the nave, although whether it was called that in the Satanic church she couldn't guess. From the look of what she now beheld, it appeared to mimic the layout and aesthetic of a Catholic church insofar as she could recall: from the floor to the walls, the tall pillars rising to the vaulted ceiling, everything was cast from a creamy, beigey marble, which seemed to glimmer in the mid-morning light filtering in through the ornate, stained glass windows. Not exactly a Satanic color scheme. Maybe the building just faced west instead of east, or something, and they'd gone all out on the vestibule because redecorating this huge expanse in black would be too pricey.

 _Satanism 101 For Beginners,_ she thought, _everything about your place of worship may resemble that of a Christian church, but at least have it facing west. Everything else can be ironically identical_. That sounded like something the object of her longtime affections would say.

_He could come into view at any moment, you know. Just appear from around that corner._

_Unlikely._

_But it's possible. Because this is real. Holy shit, this_ is _real._

 _Even so, you think he'd stop to chat? And what's Mr. Fekete going to think if you turn up late? Not exactly very professional, that's what_.

The female ghoul guided Elin down the central aisle, taking a left at the crossing and leading her into the north transept. Cerise, cyan and golden light from the massive stained-glass window danced on the pale floor all around the two women, resplendent. Elin wished she were allowed to stop and admire it, hell, get a look around the entire place and study the depictions in all the windows. Maybe later, if that wasn't against these people's rules.

 _Holy shit. Holy shit. Errr...unholy shit? This isn't real. This_ is _real._

At the center of the transept wall stood a wide, semi opaque glass door. The masked woman escorted Elin through it, onto a landing, and down a spacious flight of glass stairs that looked as if they'd never seen the bottom of a used shoe in their life, and evidently this place wasn't one which stipulated the removal of shoes before entering. Tentatively descending—falling down carpeted stairs was one thing; glass, she was sure, even as tempered and solid as this, would yield more than a few broken bones and a concussion—she wondered how much the daily maintence of these alone cost. The moment she set foot on equally pristine marble floor once more, she half expected to see a janitor or two jump out from behind the rise and set to work polishing them.

Ample corridors branched to the left, right, and straight in front, more of that pale marble lit overhead by elegant cove lighting. Colored spotlights accentuated the calm glow, widely spaced and recessed between the base of each wall and two lines of dainty gold inlay, tinging the cream and beige with the same cerise, cyan and golden yellow as that of the stained glass window. The color scheme reminded Elin of the geriatric, supposed head of the organisation's vestments; and perhaps that was precisely the idea. She wished her guide was amenable to chitchat  so she could at least put the question to her.

 

The masked woman took a right. Some hundred feet down the corridor they passed one double width, dark chocolate colored door in the right hand wall, mirrored by one on the left hand wall. A further hundred feet down, the corridor terminated in a second glass staircase. Climbing it with slightly more confidence than she had when descending, Elin wondered exactly where she was going to end up. As the road that lead her here approached the cathedral head-on, and the parking lot stood directly opposite the entrance, thereby prohibiting a comprehensive view of its structure, it was impossible to tell how far back the place stretched, and what lay beyond. When inside, from the nave it seemed to end at the chancel, but that didn't rule out the possibility of extensions, or buildings adjoined by underground networks, of which this second construction was evidently one. Very _James Bond_. Despite its location in the town's outskirts, the cathedral was far from secluded. On the approach, she had noted several houses dotted about, and an incongrously modern office building barely two hundred yards to the cathedral's left. She reasoned there could very well be more. The antipathy towards the place clearly didn't apply to everyone, or, quite possibly the organisation might own the entire area, and this was their abbey, estate, or even business park—after all, gone were the days when religious organisations were forbidden from making a profit.

Logically, unless these people could magically command geography, she wasn't at one of the nearby buildings, but one that was obstructed from oncoming view. It did almost feel like something out of a spy movie. Nifty.

The rise culminated in a landing, and another semi-opaque glass door with the words _The Lorem Ipsum_ etched in the gothic font of the promotional videos across the center. It gave onto yet another corridor, virtually identical to the previous one, except for a single detail: a tall, male ghoul, about a hundred yards along, opposite a door. He straightened his posture as the female ghoul escorted Elin to him.

The dore bore the Roman numeral _II,_ gleaming gold against sophisticated mocha brown.

For an extended moment, the breath hitched in Elin's throat. Not _Unit 2_ , or even _Unit II_ , but simply _II_.

Her heart stepped up a gear. This couldn't be. It was impossible.

_Stop- just stop. Calm down. Of course it's impossible. Get that idea out of your head right now._

_But what if-_

_STOP._

"Ms. Lindström, for Mr. Fekete," she announced without ceremony. The male ghoul nodded.

Elin thanked the woman, who replied with a curt "You're welcome", then promptly turned and strode back in the direction she had come.

Nerves jangling, Elin watched her go, possibly for a moment too long, simultaneously wanting and not wanting to face the reality of The Door.

"You're the...bassist? Right?" she adressed the man, clueless as to which role on stage he played, if any, before realising she was thinking aloud and mentally kicking herself for it. An informal approach wouldn't serve her here.

"I'm the multi utility one," the ghoul replied disspationately in perfect Swedish, although his accent betrayed him as a foreigner.

She wondered briefly how he, and any of his collegues, had gotten the gig as ghouls. Was there an actual requirement to be a Satanist, and if so, a worldwide Satanic professional network responsible for allocating jobs to musicians of that faith? Did they live on site, as reputed? Did they really have to wear those masks all the time? Although the air was pleasantly cool, a tailored uniform and mask had to be pretty hard going.

"Ah- Sorry, sorry. You don't wear the symbols anymore, so..." Shit, she was turning into a nervous wreck.

_Look at him. Look at your feet. Just don't look at the door._

_For fuck's sake. There's nothing to worry about. If it's not Papa II you'll have gotten yourself into a state for nothing. And it won't be. The II is coincidental. They probably only use Roman numerals here. And if it was Papa II, they'd use his full title, wouldn't they?_

The man ignored her apology, skipping straight to: "Please knock on the door, and give the password _"sunt in culpa qui officia"_."

Elin blinked twice in quick succession. "I'm sorry- Could you repeat that?"

"Sunt in culpa qui officia," replied the man, a little slower, and with continued disinterest.

"Sunt in culpa qui officia," Elin parotted him, and then repeated it again to ensure she had it correct. The man nodded at her.

She wished she had more time. Just five more minutes, or even half that. But realistically, she knew it wouldn't help. Nothing would. However long she waited, there remained only one eventuality, which was coming back to this door and meeting whoever was behind it.

She faced the door, and those numerals that set her pulse racing. Took a deep breath. Stepped forward. Knocked.

"Sunt in culpa qui officia," she called.

From behind the dark wood, she heard a muffled, male voice: "Come in."

 


	4. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:
> 
> My continued thanks to all you lovely readers. Special thanks to aforementioned particular fan of His Royal Thighness for her love, support, and golden idea nuggets, and to a fairy princess who was kind enough to give me her thoughts.

**Chapter 3**

 

Brains and their nervousness, what a trip. Surprisingly, the first thing that struck Elin when she stepped into the room, wasn't its occupants, plural, but the look of the place: not the claustrophobic atmosphere of a typical gothic set-up, hemming you in with its gloomy slate grays, its burgundy, dusty mauve and moss green shades, and its windows that seemed to repel all but darkness. Although every bit as luxurious as she would have imagined, this room seemed more befitting of a plush hotel or upmarket penthouse than anything traditionally to do with a Satanic organisation. What must have been about 400 square foot, with a midnight marble floor so impeccably glossy it reflected the abundance of both natural and artificial light; walls of a creamy off-white, with a generously-sized rug of the same color in the center of the room, and tufted furniture to match; more of that cove lighting, this time complimented with several chandelier standing lamps; and in the ceiling's center, a less than subtle crystal chandelier. Its only nod to classicism were the floor-to-ceiling bay windows taking up the entire latter third of the room, and underneath which, behind an executive office desk of mocha-brown wood, sat...

Two people. On her right, one behind the screen of a desktop, the upper portion of his distinctive mitre visible; on her left, the other behind a sizeable laptop, which he promtply folded. The one on her right swivelled further in that direction, and into his visitor's line of sight.

This wasn't happening.

This _was_ happening.

Elin's heart lept into her throat with such a judder she nearly stumbled back. Well, this certainly answered the question as to whether at least two of the Papas had been killed off, so it wasn't a long shot presuming the other remained, if not for natural causes. Her mind raced, trying to process everything at once. Both were adorned with their skull paint, the Second Emeritus in full vestments even down to the gloves, with the unexpected addition of frameless reading glasses, which he lesiurely removed; and the Third in a cassock and grucifix, but gloveless. Were they, or the Second at least, dressed up specifically for her? If not, did this mean the bare-faced look and casual dress had indeed been a ruse? Were either of the Emeriti Béla Fekete? Did the Unit 2 in fact correlate to the II in the Second's title? What was Papa III doing here anyway?

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom, went her heart.

 _He is alive and he is right here in front of me,_ BAboomBAboomBAboomBAboom, _and oh Jesus Christ he's looking at me,_ BaboomBAboomBAboomBAboom, _oh dear God oh dear God oh dear God-_

The door swinging closed behind her caused her to jump. Fortunately, it also catapulted her back into some semblance of professional bailiff mode.

"Hello," she managed, with as much authority as she could muster, as if she wasn't enclosed in a room with two Satanic anti-popes who were supposed to be dead, "I'm from the Crown Bailiff's office. I'm here to serve a writ to Mr. Béla Fekete."

 

The black-haired man rested his chin atop laced fingers, then gave a little tilt of his head. "Hello, my little flower," he said, ever the charmer,"what can my brother do for you today? I'm having to be his mouthpiece because, alas, the poor lad has laryngitis. So now we're a double act. He whispers and mimes to me whatever he wants to say, and I vocalize it. Two for the price of one."

_We are definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto._

The other man, who clearly didn't have laryngitis, followed it up with: "If you have Ghost, you have value for money, am I right?"

Same accent as on stage, she noted, as opposed to the Italian one belonging to the purpoted 'real' man behind the guise.

So at least the Second knew she was aware of their band—not a lucky guess, given Ghost's phenomenal success in their country of residence, especially with milennials—but did that indicate any recognition? Was it a hint? She both wished and feared that it was. But oh, that voice. The voiced that had wooed her. The voice that had sung to her. The voice that, time after time, had accompanied her from the first masturbatory touch of the night, right through to her orgasm and refractory period.

"Thank you for exposing me as a liar," said the younger man, folding his arms.

Utterly deadpan, his brother retorted: "You didn't need any help from me."

The two stared each other out for a long beat, after which the Third clapped his hands decisively, announcing: "Right, well, I guess that's my cue to scoot!"

He sprang to his feet and sashayed in the direction of the door, but stopped beside the visitor. Although certainly not the tallest or broadest of men, with the slight heel on his shoe adding no more than an inch at best, there was a presence about him that Elin found undeniably magnetic. What nature hadn't granted him in height and build he compensated for in sheer charisma; and, she had to admit, facial attractiveness. Left eye notwithstanding—Elin supposed it was a contact lense—up close she noticed he had eyes of an identical color, and virtually identical shape, to those of his half-sibling. Face shape different, nose and mouth distinctly different, but those eyes were unmistakably from the same gene pool. He smelled good, too—some very fresh, citrussy scent that reminded her of summer evenings. Elin was a Papa II girl, but she knew then and there she absolutely wouldn't kick the younger Emeritus out of bed.

"Nice meeting you, Ms...?" He held out his hand for her to take, _Cirice_ fashion.

_Why I do declare! I believe the fella is a'flirtin' with you!_

_Yes. Very subtle._

"Lindström." She placed her hand in his, surprised at the softness of his palm.

"Pleasure." He lifted her hand to his lips, placing a gossamer kiss.

_What. Bedevilled. Fuckery. Is. This?!_

Had he been the one she was primarily attracted to, she would have dropped like a sack of potatoes. Was this, too, standard procedure for greeting female visitors? Or was it battle tactics, meant to disarm her, melt her icy bailiff heart so she would take pity on his poor, debt-ridden brother? Or could it perhaps be an attempt to wind his brother up?

Clueless how to react, she merely accepted the gesture, offering a polite (but she was sure awkward) smile in return.

Releasing her hand, the Third then lay one hand on her upper arm, and, leaning closer, intoned conspiratorially: "Don't accept any drinks from him. The last person who did that ended up in the crypts. Honk honk?"

"I'll...bear that in mind," she replied, more than a little discombobulated.

Her conversator nodded, before swiftly making his exit. As he closed the door behind him, she heard him chatting with the ghoul outside, although she didn't catch as to what.

And now, like a dream, she was alone with _him_ , but never in the capacity she would have imagined.

For a moment, panic threatened to overwhelm her, and she wanted to be outside this room again, too, to yank that door back open and run, just run. Hot on its heels came an almost debilitating wave of queasiness, like the moment before the first descent on a roller coaster, when you were teetering on the edge and all fired up for the rush, yet simultaneously realising the cold hard facts that you were some _500 feet_ _off the goddamn ground_ and about to hurtle down at 90 mph... and you wanted that rush so badly, and you couldn't wait for it, but that if something were to go wrong you would die a messy, horrific death... and suddenly an enormous klaxon starts sounding over and over in your head STOP STOP NO NO NO I CAN'T DO THIS I CAN'T I CAN'T I CAN'T... But you were strapped in, and you couldn't turn back, your only remaining option to simply hold on tight and pray for the best.

She concurrently wanted and didn't want to talk to him or look at him. She was ready. She wasn't ready. Despite the fantasies, was this really what she wanted? Because oh God, how she couldn't wait to be closer to him, but how frightened she was that when she did come closer, all her professional training would abandon her and she would be left utterly at his mercy. Vulnerable. Pliable. Weak. If he recognized and remembered her, things could get even worse. He'd see her for the anxiety and desire-addled fangirl she was, and manipulate the situation to his advantage, maybe getting out of paying up altogether. And he'd seen right through her already, hadn't he? He could smell the nervousness emanating from her very pores, she was sure.

But there was no choice. She had to do this, try and do this, lest she risk losing her job, or at the very least exposing herself as a coward. It was only serving a writ; she'd come up against far more challenging cases, hadn't she? She had pulled herself together before in the face of difficult debtors, and she could do it again. She wasn't a pushover.

And he was just an attractive anti-pope in skull paint who sang about Satan, who moistened her panties every time she saw him.

_Fuck._

_Fucksake, Elin, get a grip. Breathe. Compartmentalize. He is not Stage Papa II; he is_ _Béla_ _Fekete, who owes his landlady money. Just a debtor. You can do this._

Something in her clicked, then, allowing her practical self some agency. She was halfway back to Bailiff Elin again. Squared shoulders. Straightened back. It she could at least look the part, hopefully she'd start believing it.

"Please, have a seat," said Mr. Fekete cordially, gesturing to the Chesterfield club chair on the other side of the desk.

Buoyed by the absence of recognition in his disparate eyes, Elin did her best impression of a confident professional, holding his gaze—although dear God, five years had done nothing to dull the intensity of that look, even when used in a less sexually-charged setting—striding forward, and sitting down.

_Wheh! Made it!_

Despite the relative summoning of togetherness, her senses remained on high alert, and she noted the alluring scent of his cologne. Frankincense and cardamom: the same scent she recalled from five years ago, when he had leaned and kneeled within kissing distance of her. For a moment she was back there again, her bare hand in his gloved one, and he was asking her, personally, if she could hear the chimes tolling now for the end. Oh yes, she could hear them right enough, because she was going to die and go to heaven, wherever heaven was.

Fangirl Elin prayed for him to stop looking at her, please stop looking at her, please stop, please...because she was nearly as close to him now as she was back then, and those painted lips looked so, so appealing. Bailiff Elin forced another polite smile, and tried to maintain composure.

"Mr. Fekete," she addressed him, placing her file of papers on his table, "as you know, I'm here to serve you a writ for debts totalling 173,005 kr of unpaid rent to your landlady, a Ms. Karin Berglund."

The object of her affection nodded, totally unphased. "That's fine, I can pay today. Would you mind if I just called her?"

 _What?_ That was...unusual. In most cases, the debtor could not or would not pay up immediately, and the creditor was the absolute last person they would want to converse with. _But eh, it takes all sorts, I guess._

"Of course."

He picked up the black, cordless phone on his desk, pressed two buttons, and held it to his ear. So he had her on speed dial—incongruously organised for someone who had managed to amount so much debt. As he waited for his landlady to pick up, Elin cast a glance rightwards, at the dark chocolated colored combination bookcase spanning half the wall. Impeccably stacked books in most of the compartments, with the central column boasting clusters of framed photographs on all of its four shelves; and in the columns on its left and right, framed certificates. Their distance exceeded her reading capabilities, and, her curiosity piqued, she would have loved to go over and inspect them. She still couldn't quite believe she was in this man's inner sanctum, not only his workplace but his personal office. How many fans, platonic or otherwise, she wondered, had been given that opportunity? Not that many, she hoped. Although she couldn't blame the man for his promiscuity, selfishly, if she couldn't have him sexually, she at least wanted what few others had.

"Yes, hello, Sister..."

Although it wasn't addressed to her, his voice brought her attention back to him. His landlady was a sister? _A_ sister, or _the_ Sister? All things considered, it didn't _not_ make sense—unless he had a solid cover-up story, she couldn't imagine many landlords would rent to Satanic anti-popes. As a semi-covert organisation, they probably kept most things in the family.

"Are you available to talk at the moment? Just five minutes, max... Mmm hmm... OK... Thank you." He hung up, then to his visitor, continued: "She says she'll call back within fifteen minutes. And as she's not one for mincing her words, when she says within fifteen, she means within fifteen. So, you don't have to worry about sitting here twiddling your thumbs indefinitely."

"Is she-" Elin began, before realising she was thinking aloud again, and stopping abruptly. So much for professionalism. It was his fault. His fault. Five years hadn't changed him in the slightest. It was impossible to put an exact number on his age, but there was no additional slacking of the skin, no more creases or noticeable deepening of wrinkles. The man evidently took good care of himself.

Papa—Mr. Fekete—gestured for her to continue. She obliged him: "Sister Imperator?"

"Correct," he replied, with a slight smile.

 _Oh God oh God oh God,_ he was looking at her and smiling at her, and she felt both horribly prone yet immeasurably fortunate. There her heart went again, making its presence uncomfortably felt. How apposite that the only word that came to her mind was of the very diety he opposed.

"I always wondered what her real name was," she went on, deciding polite but casual conversation would be the best course of action now. Trying to completely control her nerves was proving more effort that it was worth; she would just have to work with them instead. "I always wondered what _your_ real name was, too. Actually, all of you- I mean-" Under the continued scrutiny, albeit gentle, of those eyes, she was beginning to falter.

_Keep it together. Keep it together._

_Shit, I'm making an idiot of myself._

_You think he cares? He knows you know who he is. He probably understands you're star-struck._

_OK. I'll take that._

"Whatever you... call yourselves. The Ghost family? I've been a fan since 2012, and there's never been any information about who you—all of you—really were, so I guess I was lucky getting this gig." Without giving him a chance to comment, she continued: "Do you mind me asking... where are you from, originally? Your name doesn't sound very Swedish, and your accent certainly isn't."

"I don't mind at all," he replied genially, clearly trying to set the poor afficionado at ease, "You signed an NDA so I can pretty much tell you anything, except where the bodies are buried." He gave a tacit nod, then tapped his nose. Elin wasn't sure if he was joking or whether there might actually be some truth there. "I'm Hungarian."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, the exciteable fangirl in her taking over, "Like Béla Lugosi!"

He gave a small, adorable chuckle. "Yes. Our most famous export besides Harry Houdini."

"And Atilla the Hun?"

"Atilla, yes and no, but that depends who you ask. It's complicated."

"So were you named after Béla Lugosi? I suppose everyone asks you that?"

That endearing chuckle again. He was humoring her, but not one iota mocking with it. "I wasn't; and you're correct: if I had a hundred kroner for every time a non-Hungarian asked me that, I'd be... comfortably well off, I imagine. Béla is very ubiquitous name, always has been. My parents chose it, though, because they wanted everyone to make fun of me at school."

"Oh?"

"If you know the Hungarian language, Fekete means "black". Béla-" he pronounced it BEE-la, "-means "white". My mother used to say having a name like that would make me a balanced individual. She turned out to be right, in a sense: the kids at school nicknamed me "ying yang", and that stuck for a long time." He sighed nostalgically.

Unable to stop herself, Elin giggled. "Oh sh- I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing at-"

He waved away her concerns. "It's fine. Actually it never bothered me to begin with. László—Papa Emeritus III to the rest of the world—still calls me it, frequently."

"László doesn't sound like a Swedish name, either."

"It isn't. He's Hungarian too, as is Papa I. Same father, different mothers, but all born and raised in Hungary until our late teens. All the Papas who have been, and ever will be."

 "Neither of you have lost your accents."

"I haven't, no. László has, a little. But generally the Magyar—Hungarian—accent dies hard."

Elin nodded. "So... It sounds like there's a long story behind all of this."

"There is."

"Do you mind if I...?" Oh crap, there went her nerves again. Just as she was starting to settle into the conversation and not completely freak out at that near intoxicating gaze, and the fact that she was having a conversation with _the_ Papa Emeritus II.

"Press for details?" he filled in.

She nodded.

"Press away, my dear."

Half of her erupted into a frothy spume at the fact of him calling her "my dear". They other half warned her not to take it so literally. He probably called all young women that, the rational half reasoned, and purposely so, because he knew the effect it had on them, just as it was having on her. On stage, and in printed interviews, the man always appeared to be a creature of deliberation. Manipulation no doubt came easily to him. He knew people, women especially, and how to work them, and even those who were aware of it would let themselves be maneuvered and molded and bent to his will. It didn't matter that you were putty in his hands, because having those hands on you, even metaphorically, felt so damn good. Again, it seemed strange that a man such as this could be so careless with his finances.

"Actually I don't know where to start," she admitted. "This whole day has been so...well..weird. I mean it's not everyday you get called to Ghost HQ to serve a writ to Papa Emeritus II _in full regalia_ , so I'm a little... I'm still trying to process this, you know? You'll have to excuse me for not being at my professional best."

He gave an understanding nod. "Completely natural, don't worry. For what it's worth I don't think you're doing too badly."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. And like I just said, you signed an NDA. You might think an NDA is restrictive, but in fact, it's actually very liberating—you can ask whatever you want, and I can answer you honestly, without fear of repercussion on either side."

That almost sounded as if he wanted to unburden himself. No, probably not as strong as unburden, but there was at least an eagerness to satisfy her curiosity. Hell, maybe the guy just wanted to appease his own vanity and talk about himself to a starry-eyed admirer? She couldn't say she blamed him.

"That makes sense. So, all the Papas are Hungarian, but you're based in Sweden? How does that all...configure? I mean- everything I've seen today indicates you're a legitimate Satanic organisation, but... Sweden? I'd think Norway would be more your area, being the home of black metal and all things morbid."

"OK, one question at a time."

"Sorry."

Again, he waved away her concerns. "Do you know who our song Elizabeth is about?"

"Elizabeth Báthory." She was sure she pronounced the surname incorrectly, but hoped he'd let it pass. It wasn't as if Hungarian featured in the Swedish national curriculum.

"Guess who our paternal line is descended from?"

"You- what?! Are you kidding me?"

"Absolutely not. And we have all the geneological records to prove it."

"That's incredible."

"Indeed. By the way, the legend of her being the most prolific female serial killer in history is somewhat exaggerated, and don't believe anything you read about her being a cannibal. However.... well, there's no denying she was an evil bitch."

Elin laughed. "You're talking about your great great, great great great, great great... uhhh... I don't know how many fathers' fathers' fathers' she goes back..." to that, she saw him crack a smile, one which reached his eyes, "But you're talking about your ancestor like that."

"Oh, I can be objective about it. Without her this organisation wouldn't exist, but she was absolutely an evil bitch. That much can't be denied. Our church is named in her honor, but we don't romanticise her beyond that. You can take our song about her with a pinch of salt, frankly, which I think most fans are intelligent enough to do."

"Fair enough. So... what's the story?"

"Well, she's listed officially as having four children who lived into adulthood, and four who died in infancy, but that's incorrect. One of the supposedly 'deceased-'" he illustrated his point with finger commas, "-sons survived. He came close to death when he was five, but somehow clawed his way back to health, and she took this as a sign that he was chosen for some great purpose. She was already up to her knees in the blood of peasant girls by then, and alighted on the idea that, hey, someone could continue the family legacy."

When he got going, he talked with his hands a lot, Elin noted. One more thing to like about him. Barring the possibility of this being a cleverly constructed facade, his demonstrative gestures showed he wasn't holding back. It showed honesty.

"She devised this elaborate scheme to purport the rumor that he had died, all the while keeping him in her estate and schooling him privately in her nefarious ways in the name of Satan—which, let me just reiterate, we do not in any way condone, regardless of what our songs say. She had a lot of staff complicit in this, all of whom she murdered sooner or later, otherwise he probably would have ended up imprisoned until his death, too. After she was convicted and sentenced, he escaped, fled the country, traveled around Europe for a while, before settling in Sweden and founding this church. A lot of disatisfaction with the Catholic church here, or so he said in his journal, anyway."

"He documented all of this?"

"Never missed a day. The Bathories were supremely educated people. Erzsébet-" he pronunced it "air-ZHII-bet", "—Elizabeth—ensured he was fluent in three languages by age ten, and encouraged him to keep a journal. These journals were handed down to his sons, who were meticulous in keeping journals of their own, and their sons, in turn, et-cet-era ad inferi.

"Speaking of sons, our founding father, as it were, wanted a male heir to succeed him, but in Sweden every child he produced was female. In those days, obviously, they didn't know that it was the sperm that determined the child's gender; he thought there had to be something fundamentally wrong with Swedish women that they couldn't produce boy children."

Elin listened to him, rapt, watching him gesticulate as the story hit its stride.

"So, he left the running of the church to his second in command, and returned to Hungary to set up a satelite branch, and sowed his wild oats among his female acolytes. Most of them still bore female children, but two had boys. To maintain strong ties with the motherland, he decided to have them raised there, and then brought to Sweden after they graduated highschool. And thus the tradition was born, and hasn't been broken since. One thing that _has_ , though-" he pointed at her, "is murdering people in Satan's name. None of that, thank you very much. Contrary to everything you've probably heard, including in our songs, Satanists aren't evil. We don't sacrifice people to Beelzebub. We don't want the Antichrist to be born of mortal woman and destroy the Earth. All this-" he pointed to his face and then his vestments, "isn't meant to signify evil incarnate—it's a visual protest against the Catholic church. The Pope dresses in white, so we dress in black. Catholics have only one Pope, so we have several; although it could be argued that Nihil is our only true Papa. Catholicism says no bodily modification, so we say, "right, let's get our entire faces tattooed"."

"Tattooed?!" Elin exclaimed.

 


	5. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:
> 
> 1\. My continued thanks to all you lovely readers. Special thanks to aforementioned particular fan of His Royal Thighness for her input.
> 
> 2\. Again, due to unfortunate circumstances, I might not be able to update for anything from 2-4 weeks. I cannot provide a more accurate estimation than that, unfortunately. Please stay tuned, and your patience will be duly rewarded.

**Chapter 4**

 

"You and the other Papas—you're tattooed?! It looks like facepaint or makeup to me. And there are times it looks different, too, like you've applied the paint or makeup in a slightly different style. In the _Papaganda_ videos you're shown putting it on, and in the video where you were all allegedly murdered you're all sitting there bare-faced-."

"-and I'm holding my Uno cards the wrong way round, yes," he replied, eliciting a laugh from her. A knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips, he continued: "We called it _Papaganda_ for a reason, not only because it's a play on words. The primary definition of "propoganda" is the spreading of deliberate misinformation; as I'm sure you're aware by the fact of me being very much _not_ dead, we're not always 100% truthful in our promotional material. It's all designed to mislead or persuade in some way or other—it throws people off the scent, and helps keep the punters interested."

Elin nodded. "Makes sense."

"And you're right, we do apply facepaint and/or makeup, but _over_ the tattoos, to enhance them. For stage shows we really have to cake it on or apply several layers, because the bright lights tend to drown everything out unless it's really bold. Of course, sometimes we make a few creative adjustments, such as smudging the makeup a little and making it look messy, or applying the paint a little asymmetrically, or using a pale grey instead of white, etc. We have fun with it. Another benefit of makeup or paint is that, for us as men, if you don't use primer, it adds years to you. Every line, every wrinkle, every pore, is magnified. I feel like a drag queen saying that. "Oh, never mind those primers, sweetie. Embrace your age and be fabulous!" Anyway... Don't get me wrong, none of us Papas are spring chickens, but most people coming to our shows expect an old guy. Age in this profession connotes authority. If they knew we weren't all 65 plus it'd detract somewhat from the experience. The men revere an old guy, and many of the ladies get off on the taboo of doing the naughty with an old guy. I don't quite get the appeal, personally, but I won't knock it, oh no," he flashed her a delicious smirk.

 _Of course you wouldn't, you bastard,_ she wanted to reply. _Hah_. Instead, in an attempt to quell the blush she could feel threatening to suffuse her cheeks, she chose to bring the conversation back to less arousing ground. "Besides on stage, are you ever obligated to wear the makeup? Do the tattoos get that old look to them?"

"Not for a very long time. They're superb workmanship. The ink used is jet black, pure white, and we have them refreshed as soon as they start to fade or get that greenish tinge. The one you're looking at right now was redone two years ago for the first time."

"Wait- you're not wearing anything over that?"

"My face and neck are _naked_ ," he said, gaze unfaltering and the vaguest hint of mischief in his eyes.

_I am so absurdly pliable it's unreal._

"Your neck's tattooed as well?"

"It actually goes far beyond my neck."

What Elin wanted to say was: "Care to show me, Mr. Fekete? Those vestments are sexy as fuck but I'm sure your skin is just as appealing." What she actually said was: "Is body ink mandatory?"

"Only the sole of the left foot, where we have a glyph of the Leviathan cross. Anything else is personal preference."

Her curiosity piqued at the mention of the Leviathan cross. As an emblem only ascribed to Satanism by Anton LeVey in the 1960's, she recalled having read, she wondered what its importance was to the Ghost church. Had LaVey been down with the Ghost sickness before the latter began on their musical endeavors? She made a mental note to ask him about it before she left.

"Is the actual skull design personal preference, too?"

"The skull is obligatory, but we're given a lot of leeway with it. We can design it ourselves, or have it drawn up for us. Nihil designed his own. Zoltán—Papa I—had so many ideas, he ended up completely at a loss for which one to choose, so in the end he said to hell with the lot of them, and had one specially created for him. I always had a very distinct image in mind, so this design is my own, as is László's."

"I love how individual they all are. Yours is classic; Papa Nihil's is minimal; Papa III's is stylized; Papa I's is a mixture of both... They're really..." she searched for an appropriately eloquent word, but couldn't find one, "cool. That sounds so juvenile, I'm sorry."

"You needn't be so self conscious." He fixed her with a reassuring look. "Getting tongue-tied is a very natural reaction. You said it yourself: it's not everyday you walk into a place like this and meet people you were lead to believe had been killed. Besides, it's the sentiment, where the compliment comes from, that matters." He balled his right hand into a fist, then gave a gentle thump against his left pectoral.

"You're...welcome."

She wished he had taken her hand instead, and thumped it against his chest. To have any bodily contact with this man would be divine. Memories of how he teased his fans by touching himself on stage, brief but oh so tantalizing appetizers, ran through her mind. _One of you, some of you, can touch me, later, if you're good,_ those gestures intimated. And she nearly had done, if it hadn't been for that group of girls in the toilet.

A pause. Their gazes locked a beat too long, his eyes radiating warmth—the eyes of someone that could be trusted. But she could swear there was also something else, just beneath the surface. It was more a feeling he was projecting and that she was picking up on than anything visible. But one thing was for sure: this man did not betray himself. If he was hinting at something, it was deliberate. And that something didn't require words or overt gestures. Heat pricked at her face , and her heart begin to flutter anew; and of course, _oh God_ , the moisture gathering in her nether regions, signaling her readiness for penetration. There was no way he couldn't notice how she felt; her desire for him was so blatant as to be almost palpable. She knew it, he knew it, and she knew he knew it; and now he was acting on it, either beginning to hit on her, or was cruelly toying with her.

She had no doubt he had such cruelty in him, but put the kaibosh on that train of thought before her own insecurities could derail her. After all, she was only here to collect a debt.

But oh, dear sweet merciful Father in Heaven, how she wanted to be swayed right now. An image of him bending her over the desk flashed brightly in her mind's eye; then, hoisting her up against the wall, his strong hands pinning her wrists, and her legs wrapped around his lower back. Feeling him thrust-

 _Fuck me, Papa. Please, please fuck me,_ her desire begged.

 _No. Stop it. This instant._ the voice of sanity shot back. It was right, of course, and she would have to abide by it, lest she end up doing something she might regret. If he was only toying with her, and so rejected her advances, how humiliating, how dream shattering, would that be? She needed to get back to neutral territory before she found out.

She made a clean break by wrenching her gaze momentarily from his to glance at her papers, finding transient solace in the boring, the official. Nothing better to dry up desire than burocracy. When their gazes met again, she felt only marginally calmer, but it would have to do.

"What about Cardinal Copia's skull tattoo?" she asked.

"Supposing he attains Papa status. It's not a given."

Did she detect a hint or rancor in his tone? Panic began to stir at the thought if it being towards her. To misappropriate the meme, one did not simply rebuff Papa Emeritus II's advances.

_Shit! What have I done?_

_It's not necessarily you. Calm down. Breathe. Continue._

"But if he does?" she questioned.

"Well, that boy already has a folder compiled. But we shall see."

Relief descended upon her, warm as a carress, as quickly as panic had risen. The sentiment was directed at his colleague, not her. She wondered why. Maybe because the Cardinal signified the organisation's biggest successes to date, the posterboy for Ghost's propulsion into the stratosphere and worldwide mainstream acclaim? Maybe something petty, such as having a bigger dick? Or maybe even just something so mundane as personality clashes. She didn't probe further.

"I noticed he's got the same Satanic left iris, and the raccoon eyes or plague eyes or whatever they're supposed to signify. Are the eyes makeup or the startings of the facial tattoo?"

A wry smile, cementing her relief that he definitely wasn't irked at her. "Very perceptive of you. Yes, the eye markings are permanent. We're like a Latino gang: if you're male and want to ascend the ranks, you're required to agree to certain visible bodily modifications. First is the Leviathan aka sulphuric cross on the sole of the left foot, when you're promoted to bishop. Second is the occular implant, when you make archbishop. When you become a cardinal, you get the plague eyes. Finally, if and when you're ordained as Papa, then it's the full facial."

She would have bet good money on him choosing the word "facial" for its euphemistic qualities. Her puerile side snickered internally, remembering the countless times she had fantasized about him shooting his load all over her face.

_Stop. It._

"That's a lot of commitment. I can only imagine how much it must have hurt physically. I presume it's to determine who's really dedicated to the cause?"

He laughed, but not unkindly. "Also like a Latino gang, the only way you leave this little club is in a coffin. Oh, they don't threaten you with death if you want to leave, but looking like this-" he pointed to his face, "-good luck getting along in the real world. You could apply stage makeup or wear a mask, but it's tedious, and only effective from a distance, because anyone who sees you up close is going to cast just as much judgement as if they saw you with a face full of ink. Ergo, no high ranking deserters."

Elin nodded. "The bare-faced look... are you and Papa III wearing flesh tone makeup then? Or masks?"

"In the video where we get murdered, we're wearing masks."

"Is that how you'd actually look without the tattoos?"

"Similar, but not quite. The masks are based on our features, but a few deliberate liberties have been taken to ensure they're far from identical. If you look closely at the _Papaganda_ material and the _Year Zero_ video you'll see the only faithful representations are my wrinkles. The nose is 85% accurate, though."

"Funnily enough, I did notice there was a bit of difference. There was something else, too."

"Go on."

"Your hands in those videos look a lot younger than I expected."

He acknowledged her with a nod. "Good observation."

"Are you wearing some sort of prosthetic makeup on them, or is that not even you?"

Another wry smile. "Guess."

"It's not you, is it?"

"Correct, Watson. Any time you see the "off duty" guy, that's not me."

"Then, who?"

"An Italian guy by the name of Paolo. He's an average erect dick size shorter than me, though-"

Elin nearly choked at the quip. Not that the man didn't use vulgar language—she'd seen plenty of evidence to the contrary—but the unexpectedness of it was hilarious. That was the Papa II she knew: a sneaky so-and-so who would catch you off guard when you least expected it.

"- which didn't go unnoticed by everyone during the signings and the meet and greets. But he was the most trustworthy actor we could get, so we went with him."

"How did he explain that one away?"

"We had him tell them he was standing in for me because I was unwell. "Oh, Papa's got a cold, and I'm available, so we're doing this so as to not let the fans down". For those who hadn't met me before, and hadn't seen me from the front row—which is most of them—it added to the mythos."

"Sorry if I'm prying here, but did the idea to use Paolo come from a period of illness in your life?"

"Like I said, Ms.Lindström," he looked her directly, unwaveringly in the eyes as he said her name, as if her name carried substantial weight to him, "pry away. But no—selling my soul to Satan must have done me good, because I haven't had so much as a head cold in nigh on a decade. The "casual Papa" schtick was something we always intended to do. It was all planned."

At the word "planned", for the third time this visit she found her mind getting snagged on the incongruity of this entire situation. In her experience, meticulous people were the least likely to get into debt, and any debt they did incur was usually short term. Debtors being able to cough up the requisite funds immediately wasn't out of the question, but those funds were typically of the minimal sort, as opposed to a whopping 173,005 kr, so the fact that he said he could pay up then and there felt off. How someone could accrue that amount of debt, then suddenly be able to pay it when the debt collectors were called in, seemed unlikely at best. Suddenly, she had to fight the desperate urge to ask him outright to explain precisely what was going on. She was pretty sure now the organisation hadn't ensnared her for the purpose of human sacrifice, yet it still felt like a setup. But why?

Then it struck her: she had been transfered to Linköping six months ago, and Mr. Fekete had begun accruing debts...

Five months ago.

Yes, five months, his file said; she recalled feeling aghast at the exorbitant amount of rent the guy was supposed to be paying. And in the bar-based team bonding sessions after work, she had all too drunkenly and all too soon and let her guard down beyond a reasonable amount to Magnus, bringing up the subject of Ghost and confessing her attraction to Papa II. She had confided in Magnus, telling him quite animatedly about that night, that gig, and what had prevented her from jumping the old skele-pope's bones. Her supervisor was the type to engender trust, and she was the type to pour her heart out when inebriated. Over the phone barely fifteen minutes ago, he had sounded suspiciously unperturbed about the turn of events.

Six months since her move.

Five months of Papa's debts, to none other than Sister Imperator.

Her supervisor's history as a roadie for various Scandinavian rock bands.

Her confession to said ex-roadie.

Said ex-roadie's easygoing manner when confronted over the phone with the current absurd situation.

Could it be...? Could it?

Goddamn alcohol. Goddamn _her_. Goddamn fucking Magnus. Please, goddamn fucking Magnus. Please, let it be true. In that moment, she both adored and despised her supervisor. If she hadn't let desire, need, desperation take over, getting completely ahead of herself and drawing rash conclusions, she would thank him for this, but she would vow never to tell him another secret again.

"Something on your mind?" Papa asked, a slight tilt to his head.

With renewed boldness, she looked him square in the eye, and replied: "You know my supervisor, don't you?"

And then, with mythical comic timing, the phone rang. Sister. Elin wondered if there were cameras and hidden microphones in the room, the woman ready to swoop in the moment their visitor caught on to the plan. Unlikely, but not entirely beyond the scope of possibility. She glanced elsewhere while he spoke.

"Hello, Sister... Mmm hmm..." He kept his eyes on her, unreadable; although she found once again her revived confidence already diminishing... and that, to her simultaneous dismay and delight, she was _enjoying_ it, enjoying being made his prey. If her suspicions and deductions were correct, he hadn't forgotten her. She was the one that got away for five years, and that he found again, thanks to Magnus, and her drunkenly shed inhibitions.

Five years ago, he lost her. Five or Six months ago, via Magnus, he found her. Then, he went after her. All this, for her. That thought alone was pure sex.

Oh God, she was so ready for him. She was sure it was coming off her in waves, and she hoped it was affecting him. She hoped that beneath that cool veneer, beneath those vestments, he was rock hard, aching to be inside her. Maybe now she would have the opportunity to ask him whether he had been hard on stage, too, throughout their flirting.

She kept her eyes averted.

"That's right... Yes, when I called... Mmm hmm... The way it works is I pay them the debt, plus their charges, and they forward the debt payment to you... Yes, online. Bank transfer... By the end of the day, I presume..."

Jesus fuck, just listening to the man talk to his superior would be enough to get her off. He excited her as much audibly as he did visually. Being in his presence, her panties were already on their way to being completely sodden, a damp patch staining her trousers for all to see and snicker at. She would be walking out of there looking like she had pissed herself. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"OK... Thank you, Sister... Yes, this evening... Great, thank you... OK.. Bye."

He hung up. Elin brought her gaze back to his. Holding her in his sights, a delicious half smirk playing upon his features, he opened a drawer in his desk, retrieving two sheets of printed paper, which he turned around and lay infront of her.

"One is a copy of my latest bank statement; the other is a payslip. Proof that you'lll have your money by the end of this visit."

She surveyed the papers, gasping at what they revealed. This man wasn't short of money in the slightest, and he absolutely wasn't in debt. She found it mildly amusing that he even received payslips at all.

"You do know Magnus, don't you?" she posited, after passing the papers back to him. It was hard not to break out into a grin of delight. "That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

But instead of answering her question directly, and with a positively lascivious glint his eyes, he replied darkly: "So what happened to you that night, little Space Buns?"

 


	6. IMPORTANT: Article 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aricle 13 looms. If I suddenly vanish, here's what to do.

Please, [watch this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbXHrj8k7dg&feature=youtu.be).

 

In the event I vanish without prior warning, head over to the wonderful and brilliant [spazzatura_fantasma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spazzatura_fantasma) who will be giving my work safe harbor from there on in via a psued. (And if you haven't done so already, give her stories a looky, too. You won't be disappointed.)


	7. UPDATE, 2019/2/17

Hey everyone :)

Hope all is well with you. Just to let you know, I'll be getting back to this after the B _lue Skyed Eternity_ fic is done.

Thanks for hanging in there. Your patience will be rewarded ;p


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